


These Colours Don’t Run

by BlueNeutrino



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies, Extended Scene, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: Extended version of the Iorveth vs Roche cutscene in TW2. Iorveth defeats Roche and claims his prize.





	These Colours Don’t Run

**Author's Note:**

> Two things: 1) while I’m sure this is down to it being ridiculously hard to animate, Iorveth is never actually shown taking Roche’s emblem despite that being the whole point. He just...talks about it. 2) Something Roche says towards the end if he sides with Redania about his true colours being on his skin. Thought I could take that a little more literally.
> 
> I realise the summary kinda sounds...slashy. Not to say it couldn’t be, but this fic is not overtly slashy. It is, at most, suggestive. So, while you might enjoy it if you’re a fan of the pairing, don’t expect hate sex so much as just plain hate.

The breath is abruptly forced from Roche’s body as he goes down. His arm is numb, bleeding from where he’d taken that final disarming blow, and his chest heaves as he tries to recover from the sheer weight of the sword swung into it. His armour had failed. He knows he should have seen to the repairs and replacements immediately after the battle, but with events unfolding so quickly there just hadn’t been time. Many of the straps are worn out, seams on the gambeson are beginning to split, and the dragon had done a number on his chainmaille. For all his skills in combat, it’s left him at a disadvantage. Iorveth had landed the blows and Roche had felt them.

He’s making excuses, and he knows it. He’s been defeated, fair and square, by the ploughing Scoia’tael commander now advancing on him with a sword pointed at his throat.

“The Temerian Special Forces, created by Foltest to combat the Scoia’tael after the first war with Nilfgaard. Veterans, professionals, the best of the best,” Iorveth sneers, crouching beside him. “This is the end, Roche.”

The elf leans closer, raises the sword in his left hand to press onto Roche’s throat. The soldier is forced onto his back, lying flat on the forest floor as Iorveth leans in and presses a hand to his chest, fingertips touching the emblem of three white lilies sewn onto his coat. “See these emblems? Temerian lilies - that’s all I lacked. I’ve defeated the commanders of all the special forces in the North. Now, I shall unite the Scoia’tael.”

Even through all the layers of armour, Iorveth can feel Roche’s heart pounding. The feel of it is exhilarating, yet nonetheless makes him want to shake his head. _Dh’oine_ hearts are so frantic, prone to racing at the slightest provocation. No wonder they burn out so fast.

Roche glares up at him with hate in his eyes, and spits through gritted teeth, “It will take more than a piece of cloth to do that, Iorveth. Even many of your own kind think you’re depraved.”

“Funny. I could say the same about you.”

The patch on Roche’s coat is already beginning to come loose, the top right corner needing stitching again, and Iorveth takes the knife from the sheath by his shoulder and pushes into the gap to sever another stitch. With the peeling edge loosened further, Iorveth grasps the cloth and rips, pulling it from Roche’s breast.

“If it’s any consolation, I’ll be sure to do this one the proper honour and wear it over my heart,” he says, holding up the crest to admire it.

Roche snarls. “Loses its meaning if you don’t believe in what it stands for.”

“Oh, but I do. It stands for your defeat at my hands.” Iorveth glances down at the various other emblems he’s wearing on the strap across his own chest. He slips Roche’s Blue Stripes crest beneath his collar and inside his breastplate to add to the collection later. “You believe in it too, don’t you, Roche? I’ve heard the rumours that you keep your real crest somewhere a little harder to lose. I just have to see for myself.”

He begins to undo the fastenings on Roche’s coat, pushes aside the medallion so that he’s left facing the layer of maille. It’s not going to stop him. Roche watches the sneer that forms on the elf’s lips as he sees the damage left by the dragon. He’d taken that blow hard on the bridge, the dragon swooping in so that its claws had swiped him savagely across the chest and rent a clean slash through the maille tunic.

Roche should have gotten a new one. There hadn’t been time. Instead, he’d patched it up best as he could with twine to hold the remaining rings together until he could get a replacement, but now Iorveth faces no resistance as he slides his blade through the knots and parts the metal to get to the padded armour underneath. He doesn’t even seem surprised that the maille has been split so cleanly when no sword should be able to accomplish that, but, distracted, the thought doesn’t occur to Roche.

Iorveth cuts through the ties securing the gambeson and peels back the layers of clothing until he’s exposed the soldier’s bare chest. “Eager to get my clothes off, aren’t you?” Roche quips, and feels the sudden hard press of the sword against his Adam’s apple to silence him.

“So proud to wear your colours on your chest, you even have a spare,” Iorveth remarks, looking down at the tattoo peeking out above a carpet of dark chest hair: three Temerian lilies right over Roche’s heart. The elf smiles cruelly. “Perhaps I’ll have to take those, too.” He raises the knife again and places it against Roche’s skin, angling as if to slice.

Roche’s lips curl in a defiant snarl. “You can take my crest, Iorveth. You can even take my skin. But if you want to take my colours, you’ll have to rip the beating heart from my breast.”

Both blades suddenly dig in a little harder and Iorveth draws his face closer to his enemy’s. “Don’t think I wouldn’t,” the elf hisses in Roche’s ear, then pushes the knife against the tattoo, the pressure just shy of enough to break the skin.

Roche swallows. “Believe me, I don’t.”

The tip of the knife digs in, draws blood, and he gasps.

“Who are you trying to impress?” Iorveth taunts. “Your king is dead. None of your men are here. You don’t have to beg for me to kill you more painfully.”

“No, but wouldn’t it make for quite the story? When the rumours start to fly that among all those trophies you’ve collected you’re keeping a dead human heart. As if anyone needed any more proof you’re a terrorist lunatic.”

The blade at his throat suddenly twists, forcing his head back as the edge pushes under his chin, and Roche grunts. Iorveth leans even closer, the knife digging in between the other man’s ribs. “If I do cut out your heart, _dh'oine_ , it will only be to prove how black it is. Women and children, you’ve slaughtered.”

Roche glares. “And you haven’t?”

He doesn’t get a reply. Just a look of pure disdain as Iorveth removes the knife and replaces it with his palm. “Just so you know, your fear _delights_ me,” he says after a moment of feeling the pounding in Roche’s chest.

“Fear?” Of course it’s bloody fear, but Roche will go to his grave denying it. “That’s just anticipation. Go on. Finish what you started.”

That makes the elf’s lips twist in a smirk. “I shan’t kill you, Roche. We Aen Seidhe never kill the last specimens of dying breeds.”

“Do it, Iorveth. Or are you too much of a coward?”

The elf peers down at him with what Roche almost thinks is pity. “You’d rather die than live with the humiliation. Which of us is the coward?”

He positions the tip of the knife against the uppermost lily, and Roche almost wishes he’d just sink the blade into his heart and be done with it, but instead Iorveth drags the knife across his skin in a vicious diagonal slash that ends just above his left nipple.

Roche grits his teeth and hisses against the pain.

“There are your colours, Roche,” Iorveth taunts as he watches the blood spill, straightening up. “You’ll bleed enough to defile them but not enough to kill you. Live on and remember who defeated you. Remember he can do so again.” Iorveth takes a moment to savour the rush as he stands over the soldier, lying on the floor in humiliation and defeat, then turns away. “ _Va fail_ , Vernon Roche.”

Roche groans, clutching at his bleeding chest as he gets to his knees and tries to pull his armour back together. “You’re making a mistake, Iorveth,” he spits at the retreating figure. “I will find you.”

Already swallowed up by the trees, there’s no reply.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna do the flipside of this too where Roche defeats Iorveth, so leave that with me.


End file.
